Soldier
by Sorceress of Insanity
Summary: The Zombie Apocolypse has happened. Bodies line the streets in masses, the foul stench of death clings to the air for what little is left of the human race to breathe... The last contactable army quadrant ran out of ammo faster than the zombies could chew their limbs off, and now it's down to one last stand from a single soldier to go out with a bang...
1. A World of Death

**I believe that the Zombie Apocolypse WILL happen. Just like I believed that the world will be over-run by moths back in around 2008... Either way, I have only watched a few episodes of the Walking Dead and just know that this is a ONE OFF. I like the story line but this doesn't have any characters... except maybe the odd zombie that wasn't killed by Rick, Shane, etc... ENJOY! ****Contains course language!**

**~o0o~**

**Chapter One - A World of Death**

The pain that she felt beneath her knees was unlike anything she'd ever experienced. Searing, scorching, endless torture.

Her arm reaches out to claw at any bunch of dirt, gravel and grass she could possibly reach, then as she slowly drags her limp body, her skin catches on any sharp and jagged rocks and twigs that happen to be in her path. Clenching her teeth she ignores her bodies protest, knowing that by staying behind, her fate would be far worse. She could feel the sweat running from every pore, making her clothes stick and her hair matted on her forehead and neck, as well as warm blood mixed with dirt covering her body.

She hisses as a she drags herself onto a sharp branch that drove into her stomach, but she soldiers on, reaching out one arm at a time to drag herself away from the horrors that lay behind her.

Attempting to persuade herself this was another training exercise, she tried to calm her breathing by picturing herself back on campus, crawling in the mud soaked trenches beneath the netting and wires. She would smile; laugh whole heartedly at the pain, knowing this would train her to be the best damn soldier in the quadrant. Rowley would nudge her with his boot, trying to out crawl her, and he'd smile his stupid half grin and drag himself out into the sprint, leaving her far behind. Even though he always out matched her in upper body strength, she was by far the best runner, so she'd catch up easy.

She loved the feelings that running brought to her. Speed, power, freedom. Everything she needed. The speed to outrun everyone, and then some. The power of knowing that she could dominate all opponents. And the thrilling sensation of absolute freedom, knowing that she could always just keep running, past all the badness, all the cruelty, everything.

She was always complimented on her running. Spud, Rowley and the gang always said after the six months were out, she should just go in the Olympics.

"Berkins! Rowley! Quit your bullshit and give me 10 laps around the field! I want to see your knees up to your noses! Move it! Move it! Move it!" Gunny Sergeant Ted (Teddy to anyone who knows him well enough and who he doesn't threaten with 2 weeks of scrubbing the bathroom floors with a toothbrush each evening) would shout at them, for talking in a training exercise.

She smils as she remembers those times. Spud had moved on, started a family, was only in for the ride. Peters and Kozlowski moved onto the Navy, protecting the air as RAF pilots. Ted still taught new recruits how to grow some, shaping and moulding them to be fit and ready for any situation, like he'd been doing for the past 13 years. And Rowley, that poor son of a bitch, her best mate... they'd stuck it out, joining the army, protecting their country from any threat that came their way.

Except this one.

The only thing snapping Berkins from her thoughts was a low droning sound, not far behind her. The slow yet steady sound of uneven footsteps following her, like blowflies to a carcass.

_ Fuck_, was the only word on her mind as she picks up the pace with a whole new surge of adrenaline pumping through her veins. _Fuck fuckity fuck fuck fuck_. She drags herself over decay now, parts of broken pipes, bits of ruined cars, and the occasional body. Berkins cringes at the sight of a small child just to her left, no more than eight, half her torso eaten away. A bullet wound to her head. A small mercy.

The sight around her was not much different, no lesser horror or nightmare that ruled any person's thoughts. Around her, was simply death. Fallen comrades paved the streets in limbs and blood, piling around half exploded tanks and scavenged jeeps to any opportunistic survivor that may pass. Bodies of civilians had their insides spewed over themselves, drenched in the vomit stricken stench of rotting flesh.

This was the food source of the victims of the worst disease to plague the human race in Earth's history. The disease that affected every civilisation, every population, across the globe, slowly mutating the living, into one would call the walking dead. A bunch of scavengers, feasting, like vultures, on the living and dead. Their infectious bites and contagious scraches would turn you in a matter of hours, beginning out as a raging fever, eventually leading to an inevitable death.

But you wouldn't stay dead.

The brain stem would kick start to life, your primevil instincts take over, your only purpose: kill and feast. Sometimes the other way around. Either way, you get bitten or scratched by one of these fuckers? You're screwed. These were the infected who had practically taken over the world. An alien invasion without the UFO's, right on our own turf.

And now…

They were after her.


	2. Pleasantries

**No offense intended to Americans and Russians! I honestly love your countries and your people! It's just part of the dialogue. And thank you to those that have reviewed, you literally made my day. THANK YOU SO MUCH! *smiley smiley smiley***

**~o0o~**

**Chapter Two - Pleasantries**

**26 Hours Before**

The jeep forked left and already their hearts were racing. Every face in sight was white, their eyes sternly forward and MP5's raised in anticipation. They were going into the furthest depths of Hell, the deepest realm of nightmares and horror stories risen from simple fiction. Again.

Every few turns, they would hear a round of gun shots, a car horn blaring endlessly as they passed, or the scream of someone's story about to come to an abrupt halt. The noises made their skin prickle, like an awkward cough to a long and drawn out silence. Something unexpected, but inevitable; their silence would end with the horrors heard outside the comfort of their four mobile walls, and they would each share a concerned look, then proceed to stare into oblivion. Like all things, there is simply an end. So there was nothing left to say. No simple phrase nor comment, no snide remark or complimentary greeting. No beginning, just the end. The end was here. So what is left to talk about?

Berkins turned her gaze towards Burrito, just a few seats down the line across from her. Gomez, known simply by his comrades as Burrito (because of his Mexican decent and his love for burritos), held his chain close to his lips and muttered a silent prayer to whichever gods were listening. There was something almost peaceful about the way he prayed for the gods favour before every battle and mission, but haunting in the way his eyes would gaze over, inwardly accepting that any god that may have heard an inkling of any prayer had abandoned them now.

The sound of a match being lit broke the silence and almost instantly, the smell of a highly priced cigar filled the soldier's nostrils.

"Won't you put that shit out?" Reynolds spat. His hatred of smoking only stretched as far as his nicotine patches lasted, which was never very long as he used about twenty a day. After his girlfriend pointed out she hated the very mention of a cigarette, he opted to stop, figuring the sex was better than a daily smoke, at least only when his girlfriend was around. Safe to say as far as it went, he smoked like a chimney. Only after losing her in the first rampage, he stopped smoking in memory of her.

"What's the point?" Ivanov, a tall, proud Russian who barely gave a second thought to anyone's opinions, replied calmly. He slowly blew out rings of black smoke and leaned comfortably against the steel wall. "We're all dead anyway."

Once more, the jeep filled with an eerie silence, no different than before. He simply voiced their thoughts like they were empty words, what they truly knew but didn't point out. His posture and expressionless face was just another slap on the cheek about what awaited them outside the security of the four walls.

Berkins turned her head back down to stare at nothing in particular, until her boot was nudged discreetly by the muddied pair of boots opposite her. She raised her head to meet Rowley's mischievous smile. Though only half hearted, it was still enough to make her roll her eyes and grin back.

"Fucking Russians," he blurted out, maintaining eye contact with her. "Such pessimistic bastards." He grinned and turned to face Ivanov.

"Damn Yanks. Never know a good cigar when you see one," Ivanov smirked back.

Ivanov and Rowley only met a year or so back, but they got along through insulting remarks and snobbery, making them an inseparable pair. Though their conversations never rose above the boundaries of pointless small talk, they agreed on almost anything. Berkins quite liked his shallow humour too, almost like a rude post-it note on a topic that's blatantly obvious. Their witty insults nearly always circulated around their nationality, which had always been entertaining to watch.

"Why don't you put your money where your mouth is, Russian?" In other words, _"Share, you selfish prick."_

Ivanov stared back at Rowley, debating whether to offer out what was possibly his last packet of cigars. On what seemed to be a life-or-death decision, he rose to the challenge set forth by his witty opponent, and slowly reached into his breast pocket, passing around a silver cigar case and a pack of matches.

Berkins was passed a lit cigar from Rowley who gave her a victorious look, which only made her laugh. For one or two it was their first time in handling a cigar, and like a rookie, they made the mistake of breathing in, which was followed by a coughing fit that made the men laugh.

Rolling the smoke in her mouth, Berkins sat back and kicked her feet up on Rowley's knees, and watched as Chatzi (who didn't speak a lick of English), simply accepted the small offering, lit up, and sat back. When offered, Reynolds declined, then like a lost puppy, his eyes followed the case from hand to hand. He eventually ended his suffering with a simple "Ah, fuck it" and enjoyed the delights of the small haven.

The jeep was completely blackened with thick smoke soon after, and everyone filled the void with pointless talk about cigars, football, Russian vodka, and the promise of a polka game set for this evening. Everyone knew it was a lie, though no one wanted to admit it, liking the idea of a charade clouding this reality. Truthfully, there was barely a chance that even one of them would make it out alive. They were the last contactable squad within range, and they'd received the SOS only a few short days ago, to which they would arrive within the morning. They would bring the last ammo, the last everything, and then there would be nothing left. It was a suicide mission, and there was no turning back, because there was nothing to turn back to.


	3. Arrival

**Thank you to my awesome reviewers. Really appreciate the lovely feedback and comments :) Again, no offense intended to anyone with this story. **

**~o0o~**

**Chapter Three - Arrival**

**24 Hours Before**

They had arrived. Gunshots were closer and more rapid than in the previous hours, and the unmistakable aroma of rotting flesh was strong enough to seep through the remaining cigar smoke. The jeep would rev up and plough into masses of what the soldiers in the back would only imagine to be hundreds upon thousands of walkers. It would screech around corners and achieve complete 360s, sending the team crashing into one another's shoulders. Their driver, Stanley, had always been a maniac driver, and only now was his skill appreciated.

They had been informed that they were to be split into small groups with the remaining survivors of the regiments and were to search the buildings for surviving civilians and round them up in secure places. If they came across walkers, they were to be eliminated with a single shot to the head, or if possible a skull shattering blow with an object so as not to waste ammo. Not one of the team members wanted to get up close and personal with one of them, besides Ivanov, so bashing their head in with something like a crowbar was far less likely than shooting at a far distance. From there, the plan was slightly more hazy, with the idea of hotwiring the empty cars in the street to get the survivors to a safer location away from the city, and filling the jeeps with any food and necessary equipment. As for the walkers, they were to be lured into a building or place of convenience, shut in, and the place torched with oil and matches. Then the soldiers would get the hell out of there with preferably as minimal casualties as possible. If everything went as planned, that is.

As the vehicle began to slow, and the sounds of gunshots were far in the distance, every soldier's grip on their guns tightened. They were to be dropped off in a less dense area of walkers, and proceed on foot to aid the others.

They stopped.

In sync, each soldier prepared themselves. Burrito quickly crossed himself and kissed his necklace. Reynolds tucked the picture of his girlfriend back in his pocket. Chatzi swore silently in a foreign language. Brown and Boz took a deep breath and held it. Damon and French gulped and wiped the sweat off their heads with the back of their arms. Berkins and Rowley exchanged a quick look of dread. And Ivanov simply adjusted his cigar on his lips and kicked the door open with his boot.

There was no one. Not a single sign of life in sight. A tar road stretching until the street broke on a corner, lined with parked or broken down cars. The towering buildings stretched high and blocked the morning sun, and a ghostly breeze blew a newspaper page across their line of vision, catching at the base of a light pole.

Ivanov was the first to step out, scanning the area quickly with hawk-like intensity, then he nodded to the rest who proceeded out quickly in single file, spilling out over the road. Stanley and General Wyatt joined them from the front, guns in hand.

"I parked the car a little way aways from the fightin'. Other guys were a couple streets back. Saw about ten or so of 'em. Walkers swarmin' in on all places. Seemed like they had the place covered though," Stanley explained to the group, picking up a bag of ammo from the back and slinging it over his shoulder. He took the cigarette from his lips and threw it to the ground.

Wyatt threw bags at each of the men from the back, each varying in size. "We'll split, half coming in from the back, the other joining the party. Ivanov, Berkins, Rowley, Brown and Reynalds, you're with me. The rest, Stanley will take you to meet up with the others. Ron de vu back here if walkers get too dense. We all clear?"

"Sir, yes sir."

"Good, move out."

The group split and headed to their destinations in a light jog, each member followed their leader obediently in a tight group. Berkins, Rowley and Reynolds followed closely behind Wyatt, matching every step in speed and precision. Brown and Ivanov brought up the rear.

"Sir," Brown called out from the back, but not too loudly. "How many geeks were there approximately?"

"A few dozen." They all turned the corner. "Stanley said he saw about four civilians beside the soldiers firing at them. Seems the soldiers are hiring new recruits."

"Damn, less chance of a promotion," Rowley joked.

"Drop."

At that simple command from General Wyatt, the entire front group dropped to the ground without question, which left Brown and Ivanov who aimed, and Ivanov fired once.

A walker dropped in the distance immediately.

Everyone scanned the streets, searching for movement. Many innocent people had lost their lives because they happened to move in view at the wrong time, but that was safer than taking a chance on letting one of the walking dead "live".

No movement.

"Clear," said Wyatt after a few uncertain and silent moments passed.

The group stood and proceeded on with their jog. When they passed the walkers body, not one of them stole a second glance or made a single sound besides their deep and even breathing, and the pounding of their terrified hearts against their ribcage. Not one of them said a word. They knew that one walker was simply the beginning. The beginning of what would inevitably be the end.


End file.
